


lip-stained shot glasses and ink spattered fingers

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Love in Denial, POV Second Person, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the wind-tossed pirate and the dwarf rooted in stone ... that sounds like a terrible combination</p><p>first impressions can be quite deceiving</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. aesthete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/gifts), [tarysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/gifts).



**varric**

* * *

It surprised you, a little, how much you liked to look at her.  You weren't much even for looking, usually, and you'd never been one for humans, but you couldn't seem to avoid the ... aesthetic appreciation.

And then some.

You found yourself wondering if humans tasted the same on the tongue, sweat and slick and skin.

You wondered if her body would feel the same as a dwarva, gripped around yours, or the narrower built meant she'd be _tighter_ , if all the extra height meant there was  _deeper to delve,_ to fall into a particularly terrible metaphor.

At some point it wasn't just licentious imaginings; but you pretended.  You were friends.  You knew each other well enough to know better, or so you reminded yourself.  She needed to be free, after all, needed a life of salt, as they saying went, tears, blood, sweat, and the sea.

And you were dwarf enough you needed to stay rooted in the Stone, even if it was Kirkwall's hexes rather than Orzammar's Quarters, even if you did enjoy the sun and the air above you; your boots were never made for walking.

Or even worse,  _riding or sailing._

Andraste's knickers, just the thought made you shudder.

(And wasn't that another thing that was her fault, the tawdry bent to some of your favorite oaths.)

Perhaps she knew a bit of what neither of you were willing to admit, herself, because she started taking more jobs, further afield, as far across the waves as her Siren could go, each stop in Kirkwall shorter than the last.

Until Hawke, who reeled her in, along with everyone else, and none of you seemed able to leave.

Not even  _her._

And you were watching again, and staying up too late over drinks or cards or stories, and your storytelling was suffering, because you weren't paying enough attention to get any new stories, or not ones you could share in public anyways, because they were all about the way her voice roughened in the middle of the night, or the glint of her daggers when she sharpened them, or the way white hugged her curves until your mouth went dry.

Until she talked you into writing an erotic romance, full of noble hijinks and stupidity,  _and she helped,_ and you weren't sure if hearing her talk about sex was the worst part, or if all it took were those extra hours sitting together by lamplight, laughing over every ridiculous twist or turn or poorly thought out word choice.

You knew you'd lost even the illusion of your disinterest, at least to yourself, but you were damned to the Void itself,  _invisible to the Ancestors, even_ , because you hadn't a clue what you were going to do about it. 

And wasn't that just a kick in the arse, trying not to imagine a future with the one person even better at living in the present than you were, and failing miserably every single night when you closed your eyes, before the darkness finally rose up and let you rest, cool and still and quiet.


	2. savoring

**isabela**

* * *

You liked to tease him about his chest hair, claimed itchy fingers and wandering eyes more than once.

Or twice.

Or possibly a dozen times.

You do enjoy a good tease, after all.

The night you actually get your hands on him, however, you linger instead along the line of his jaw, fingers curling ‘til stubble catches beneath your nails, ‘til he lifts his chin, a hum to his breath and his eyes half closed, lids heavy, as for once his clever eyes and cleverer tongue both still, quiet in the firelight.

You never thought Varric could find himself at a loss for words.

Then again, you can’t quite muster any yourself, no teasing anymore as he tugs at the ties of your corset, slowly, steadily, until he can drop it to the floor beside your chair, the slightest muffled thump as it hits the boards quickly disappearing, the heavy shift of your breathing the only sound accompanying the settling of logs into ash behind you.

Savoring.

That’s what you’re both doing.

And while he would have more excuse than most for getting lost in your breasts, (as they are right at eye and mouth level with you straddling his lap, and they’re damn fine breasts if you do say so yourself, but they do get more than their fair share of attention from most people), instead he reaches up to grip the nape of your neck, and pulls you down into a kiss.

It’s a good kiss, firm and hot, and he takes his time, just lips at first, and the achingly slow slide of his tongue inside your mouth.

Perhaps you should have done this  _years_  ago.

You’d been friends a long time, longer even than either of you have known Hawke, though that isn’t a story either of you ever told,  _or ever would;_  you wonder sometimes how many stories he has hidden away, tucked safe and secret behind broad gestures and easy smiles.

This is another one, you’re sure, that isn’t for anyone else’s ears.

Except maybe Norah’s, if she’s wandering by the door, as you can’t stop a shuddering moan as one broad finger pushes up inside you, and his teeth close around your bottom lip and pull, just a little, and then his tongue flicks out to soothe even as his finger curves, and you gasp, again, eyes closing as your hips tilt and he chuckles, warm and rumbling, a deep enough sound you can feel it against your skin, everywhere you touch.

"Proud of yourself, are you?" You lift an eyebrow, sass and sarcasm, that’s you, but you can’t help but be proud of yourself too, that you manage to keep your voice steady despite the press of his knuckle inside you, the tightening of muscles low in your stomach in response.

"Always," Varric answers, and there’s warmth in his eyes, not just heat, and there’s something in your chest gone tight and hot and shivering, but you ignore it, and duck your head down for another kiss.

And another, and another, as his finger slides and curves and presses, again and again, until you’re gasping for each breath, and you’ve lifted up on your knees to give him better access, but instead he pulls his hand free, and you manage a pout, but he only smiles, because you both know what’s coming next, and you both want it, and his fingers dig into your ass as he pulls you forward, and you both groan as you lower yourself down, taking his cock inside you.

"Varric," you sigh as you lean back, and your hands dig into his shoulders, hard enough you’re probably bruising him, but he’s so thick inside you, he’d looked thick but he feels even thicker than you’d imagined, and your body throbs around him, too full to respond, to think, to do anything but ride the hint of a burn and the hot flash of pleasure up your spine.

He lifts his hips then, thighs tight and solid beneath you, holding your weight as you groan, as he pushes deeper inside you, as he whispers your name, “Isabela,” and that’s it, that’s enough, too much, the sound of the name you chose,  _not just Rivaini,_ no nicknames, no games, nothing but the two of you, skin and heat and unexpected trust.

You clench around him, cunt and thighs and fingers digging into his shoulders again, one last ragged sound of pleasure wrung from your throat, every tightening muscle and every bit of skin on fire as you lose yourself in him, in the rhythm of his body as he lifts up again,  _again,_  as you both fall towards the end, that one impossible moment when the world is gone and there’s nothing but the pull and push of your bodies, together, endless, enduring, yet never quite long enough, and you land back in the real world, settling together, the air warm and thick with the smell of skin and sweat and sex, the soft caress of his breath against your skin, the softening of his cock inside you, of your fingers against him, of the heavy thud of your heart and the uneven lift of your breath.

He’s holding you, thick strong arms and the tickle of hair against your skin, and for once you’re in no particular hurry, and you sigh, and settle a bit further into his lap, against the thick solid chair that holds you both.

He laughs again, soft and low, and shifts a little beneath you, but he doesn’t try to move, or to speak, and you let your eyes close, and you both enjoy the peace.


	3. rest

**varric**

* * *

You think she'd be surprised by your favorite view of her, now that you're prone to riding each other into a sweaty mess more often than not.

Which you enjoy, of course.  Quite a lot.  But that's not just about the view, that's about touch and taste and heat and that twist of trust neither of you quite knows how to handle, besides grip each other harder, 'til your very bodies ache with it.

You also enjoy the quiet, the conversation, the way she grins when she cheats ... and she always cheats.  You're still friends, above and beyond and before and after the fucking.  Which is better than you ever expected, back when you first met.  You have a lot of acquaintances.

Not a lot of friends.

And she is easy on the eyes.

She'd probably make a joke about curves, or ass, about bending over, or adjusting her corset.  

But it's this you like best, when she takes off her boots, and stretches out, long and longer still, before your hearth, firelight alternately highlighting and hiding the curves of her toes as she flexes her feet and sighs.

She is, perhaps, more naked now than she ever is when she's technically undressed, and it turns you on and warms your heart and tightens something in your lungs, as you have to remind yourself to breathe in enough to talk, to let out your usual patter of stories and questions and jokes, until she laughs, and you close your eyes at the sound, and enjoy the fleeting sensation of  _home_ , here in a place that's always been more a rest stop than anything else, even if you made it a nice warm one with plenty of chairs and cushions.

And you're thinking too much, you know that, you always think too much, a blessing and a curse, but at least you're enjoying it while it lasts.

Enjoying her, and who you are when she's here.


	4. homecoming

**isabela**

* * *

You were just going to say hello. Lean against the door-frame, let him rumble something vaguely complimentary and vaguely disparaging, both at once, and then continue on to drop off your bag.

His room was at the top of the stairs, after all. Had to walk right past it. Made more sense to stop on your way than have to wander  _back_  again just to let him know you were back.

Because of course you’d wander back. Wasn’t really a question.

Yet another reason to be casual about it, let the weight of your travels and the salt still caught in the creases of your boots around your ankles do your speaking for you, give you a reason to wander away again before one of you did something …  _awkward._

But he grinned when he saw you, and spread his hands, that remarkable impersonation of innocence that was anything but, and you stepped in to brush a kiss against his cheek, light and quick, a laugh caught in your chest.

_Good to see you, dwarf._

But somehow the laugh turned into something else, low and soft and warm, and next thing you knew you were flat on your back across his table, his head between your thighs, your smalls digging into your hips because neither of you had bothered to take them off; he’d just pulled them out of the way to give his tongue room to dive inside you.

Lips and tongue, and the press of his nose as he dropped his chin and the slightest hint of teeth, right when you wanted it,  _Andraste’s Tits,_ the forsaken dwarf had been holding out on you.  Paper crinkled as your back arched and your hips shifted and your fingers pulled helplessly at the sliding surface, unable to get a grip on anything,  _best welcome home kiss ever,_  and you didn’t even notice the thought of home, because you weren’t thinking at all, not anymore, just riding the heat and the trembling sort of shock building beneath your skin, and you felt the tear of paper beneath your hand as your head fell back, and your voice cried out, wordless, tuneless, nothing as beautiful as the song your nerves sang when you closed your eyes and let go of everything besides the pleasure of this reunion.

_Always good to see you, Varric._


	5. not too tired

**varric**

* * *

You always play the same game. 

The game on the table may change, cards or tiles or chips or trumps, coin or lies or stories, but that's not the important game. 

The important part is the people, of course, watching and learning and prodding them, ever so delicately. 

Making sure they're alright. 

Or as alright as they'll let you keep them. 

Hawke called you Mama Bear _out loud_ once, right to your face, after downing the entirety of a very dusty bottle Corff had found very far back in a corner. 

You almost growled in response, before realizing that would have made sure everyone remembered it. 

You never admitted it was true. 

(Most especially not to Hawke.) 

Your friends already know, of course, and everyone else can go hunt nugs, for all you care. 

Today the trappings of the game are different. 

Everyone is too tired even to pretend to push the cards around, instead there's only the ale, and the voices, soft and wandering, twisting around each other 'til barely a word or a voice sticks out above the susurrus. 

_Now that's a ridiculous word._ You're not even sure if it means what you think it means, but you must admit it sounds pretty in your head, and that's good enough, tonight. 

You're tired too. 

Even Rivaini's tired, you know, though you're sure no one else can trace the slump of her shoulders and the too loose shift of her hips, caught instead by the sharp edge of her laugh and the glint in her eyes. 

You keep an eye on her, even more than usual; too tired to quite manage discreet, though it appears everyone else is too tired to notice. 

Except for her, of course, a slow wink snuck in your direction a time or two. 

Aveline's shoulders are too stiff, even accounting for armor and exhaustion. She hurts. She won't go home 'til everyone else does though. 

She's possibly even worse than you are, over-protection-wise, though you're certainly not going to admit that similarity out loud. 

Instead you carefully point out that Daisy's limping, and the elf keeps curling his toes against the floor like he's making himself stand up straight to avoid doing the same, and even Choir Boy's armor looks a little less lacquered than usual, though it pains you a bit to admit you noticed. 

To Hawke, you just ask when someone last checked on Blondie? 

Somehow, it's not much later that between them, Hawke and Aveline are herding everyone down to Darktown, just in case. For whom, no one quite says, and you're half-swallowing a smile as they mutually nudge each other out the door: _I'm fine, of course, but you..._

The door closes softly, well hung and well oiled, and that's _almost_ an innuendo you could do something with, on another night. 

You don't need it tonight, though, as the bar slides into place, and Rivaini turns, and Isabela _smiles_ , and you may be tired, but you're not _dead._

The chairs are sturdy, hold you both quite easily, and there she is, settling in your lap, warm and solid and just heavy enough to feel _right._

You kiss her, because what else are the two of you for, really, on a night like tonight, but warmth and ease, the kind you neither of you ever admit you might want, or even worse, need. 

She sighs, and her head rests on your shoulder, and you know that's got to be awkward, she's much too tall for that. "Turn around." 

You can feel her smile in the huff of her breath, _bossy bastard_ muttered so softly you almost can't hear it, but she goes, long legs everywhere for a moment before she settles again, and leans forward, head pillowed on the table. Her back curves so prettily as she sighs again, and you dig your thumbs in along her spine, and she makes the best _sound,_ a low rumble in her chest that's almost a moan and almost a laugh. "Never gonna get rid of me now." 

"Good." 

Neither of you say anything else as your hands move slowly and steadily, digging into every knot you can find, the only sound her occasional grunt at a particularly good press of finger or knuckle, and you feel your own shoulders easing into the work. 

Her breath deepens as her back softens, and then her hips shift, just a little, just enough, and the smooth warmth between you sparks, like it always does, always did, though you both denied it for so long, and you find yourself believing that it always will. 

Exhaustion and hope and lust talking, probably, but somewhere between the twist in your chest and the throb in your cock, you're sure. 

You know. 

Partners like this? 

Might change, someday, will change, everything changes, but it won't ever really go away. 

You tease her, just a little longer, hands sliding slower down her back, her arse, until she swears at you, half breathless laugh, half glinting frustration, and you have to get off the chair to get her naked, or at least naked _enough_ , enough to get your hands on her skin, to spread her legs and listen to the way her breath catches in that instant before you thrust inside. 

You fuck, hard enough she never does quite catch her breath again, half-said words and movement gone rough and jagged, a jerk of hips and a slap of skin, and always the heat of her around you, building 'til it scalds, 'til it sears, 'til you've forgotten all your clever words, 'til you've even forgotten the few slow heart-felt ones you ever let anyone else hear, 'til you've forgotten everything but the chase, the goal, the moment her eyes and her voice and her grip all go at once, and you revel in it, for half a heartbeat, 'til the shift of her eyelashes is too much, and you lose it all, control and thoughts and sight and sound. 

Lose it all, until you win. 

You always win this game. 

Will always win, for as long as she lets you play. 


	6. misdirection

**isabela**

* * *

  
It's a beautiful evening, crisp and clear and brightly edged, like only the best sorts of days can manage.  
  
The very air tastes of the horizon, endless and blue.  
  
You're camped earlier than usual, for a jaunt down the Coast, but there are ruins, tomorrow, and no one likes not being able to  _see_  the giant spiders coming.  
  
The scritchy-scratchy of all those legs is bad enough when you've got at least half a chance to figure out where they're coming from before they jump on you.  
  
Instead there are tents, and a fire, and good-natured squabbling about who takes which watch when, and if there's enough rabbit for dinner or if someone should go hunt down some more food; but of course everyone thinks it should be a different someone because no one wants to get up again.  
  
Perfectly reasonable. You don't want to get up either.  
  
Eventually there's dinner, and the sun is finally really setting, shadows long and cool and the sky turning dark and blue before you.  
  
Somehow, as most nights seem to with Hawke, there's talking and gambling and perhaps you'd "borrowed" a bottle of something rich and bitter from the Rose to share, until one of the drinking games wanders its way through the camp, and makes its way to you, and you open your mouth and say  _truth_.  
  
You feel everyone go still before you can really see it, before the silence catches up with the itch down your spine, and you shrug, and pretend you don't notice the red glimmers of dying sunlight catching in eyes gone too wide in surprise.  
  
"What, you're all too drunk to think of a single question?" You tease, and laugh, and take too deep a swallow so you can pretend the burn in your throat is just cheap rum.  
  
"What's your favorite colour, Rivaini?"   
  
Everyone groans,  _waste of a perfectly good question_ , but you smile at Varric, let your face go still and your voice smooth as you look him in the eyes.  
  
"Gold, of course," and you know he sees the shifting of your eyes, the quick flick of your attention from the glint in his ear to the embroidery on his shirt to the few loose strands of his hair that glow in the firelight.  
  
He blinks, eyelashes gilded by light and shadow, and you roll your shoulders, as if to cast the weight of your words to the wind, before anyone realizes what you've said.  
  
Before you have to realize what you said.  
  
He knows, though, Varric always knows, and after you pass the bottle, and everyone's teasing Kitten to take a larger sip for her turn, he lifts his hand to his mouth, and the barest shift of his fingers flicks a kiss at you through the air.  
  
There's no rum to blame for the burn in your chest this time, but it's a good heat.  
  
You think you'll keep it.  
  
At least for a little while.


	7. the morning after

**varric**

* * *

You wake slowly. Darkness fading into something softer, warmer.

_Heavier?_

Your chest feels positively weighted, and there’s a tickle against your neck, and you blink, and breathe, and it’s only with the smell, last-night’s rum and the sweet rinse she uses in her hair, that you realize.

She’s still here.

She stayed.

She slept.

It hurts, how much it doesn’t hurt.

It feels like hope, and joy, and that never lasts, and you know, _you know ..._

Your heart thumps hard enough you’re afraid it’ll wake her up, and you close your eyes, and you breathe in, slow, steady, until you stop thinking, and you feel the smile ease across your face.

_She's still here._

You shift a bit beneath the weight of her head, and she mumbles something in her sleep, dark and rough and foreign, and you brush her hair out of her face, and she sighs, and then she stills, and her eyes open and she blinks at you,  _molten gold_ , and _yes,_  this is definitely a morning for smiling.

The angle’s all wrong for kissing, but you brush a knuckle against her lips, and she lifts an eyebrow, and you do your best _ridiculous eyebrow waggle_  and she laughs, low and throaty and rough, and your heart thumps again, and your cock throbs and oh, you lost this fight a long time ago; you’re amazed you managed to fool yourself about it at all.

She rolls over, and her smile is soft, and you have just a breath to wonder at it, if she’s lost something too, or found it, before her lips touch yours, and you open to her, or she to you, you’re not sure if there’s a difference anymore. Her hair tangles between your fingers, and you feel her tongue in your mouth, and maybe even the beat of her heart in her chest, pressed to yours, heavy and uneven.

“Why hello there, Varric,” her voice rubs against you, silk and leather, and you swallow a moan, a cough, before you risk your own.  


“Good morning, Isabela.” She shivers, and you feel her lashes brush against your skin as she blinks, and now, the touch of her skin against yours isn’t just warm, it scalds, and you think perhaps you might die from the _want_  of her, for her, about her, her laugh and her eyes and her skin and her kisses.

“Let’s see how good we can make it, shall we?” Her whisper makes you shudder, and the first hint of teeth along your jaw makes your fingers clench, and _yes, oh yes,_  you’ll make sure it’s very good indeed.  



	8. the night before

**isabela**

* * *

You're free.

It wouldn't be hard to leave, you know. A ship, a wind, a chance ...  _the sea._

Once that was all you needed, all you dreamed, all you could ever desire.

Twice, thrice, an eternity of escapes, the shift of the waves, salt on your lips, sun in your eyes, the weight of steel at your hip, on your back, down your boot; promise and threat.

But sometimes that wasn't enough, and you came back to land.

To blood and regret and the weight of your choices settling across your shoulders.

Back to Kirkwall. Not that you gave two figs about Kirkwall, but Kitten? Hawke and Fenris and Lady Shield-Wall, even Anders and Sebastian.

And Tethras, of course.

 _Varric._ You can't even fool yourself in your memories, he's not just Tethras, never was, not five seconds after you met him, and you saw him wink. Plus there was all that shooting and stabbing and saving each other's lives.

That seemed to be a theme for Kirkwall.

Shit of a town, but it had  _such people._

So you came back.

So you stayed.

And you could leave, you knew, even if your ship was no more, even if Hawke had made you be  _responsible_. (Sort of.) The asshat in the way was gone, after all.

(Not that there hadn't been ways around and around him, as well, if you'd been willing to take them. Willing to be someone else, someone without a Hawke. You remember being her. You're not sure when you left her behind, not sure when you stopped thinking you'd lost something, rather than found another.)

There were always more ships, more jobs, more coin, more cons.

More people who had heard of the Queen of the Eastern Seas, and would help out of greed, or fear, or a little bit of both. (Maybe a lot of both. You had quite the reputation for booty. _Both kinds._ You smile at yourself, and sigh, because at least you know you're funny, even if it's here, and now, alone on the roof of a cheap tavern, smelling drink and piss and vomit from Lowtown's alleys and yet, still, beyond it all, always the hint of the sea, soft and sharp and too far away to see by starlight.)

You shivered, though it wasn't cold, tried not to imagine The Hanged Man drowned in a hurricane, Hightown crumbling and falling as waves ate away the cliffs that held it up. The ocean was a harsh mistress, and She could devour you all and not even notice the difference, but you couldn't be afraid of Her. There were worse ways to go.

There were worse things to be afraid of. Things you couldn't name, couldn't see, couldn't hear, things that filled the sky, 'til even the bright blue of spring seemed ominous. Something worse than any storm was here, was waiting. Couldn't everyone tell, even the Divine so far away, sending her Nightingale to taste the winds, to hide in shadows and whisper behind closed doors? Every Captain in the Port could tell, selling and leaving twice as fast as usual, frowns on their faces as their fingers twitched and their shoulders rolled and you ought to be doing the same ...

Kirkwall was a shit town, and it could slide into the sea and no one would miss it.

But it was Varric's home. Hawke's perch and Kitten's Tree and  _on and on_ and you wanted to call yourself an idiot for even thinking something could be more important than a stiff wind and a full sail, and yet.

And yet even you weren't that good a liar.

Even you knew that sometimes you had to weather the storm instead of trying to race ahead of it. Sometimes it was worth the anchor's weight pulling you down, holding you still. Sometimes you had to stay.

At least for a little while.


	9. the short good-bye

**varric**

* * *

 

There’s ash in the air, smoke in your lungs, blood under your nails and things you don’t want to think about ground into the soles of your boots, but none of that is what makes the sharp pain in your chest twist, tighter and tighter, none of that is what makes it hard to breathe.

You need more time.

There isn't any to be had, not now, not with the fires ringing the horizon as you head towards the dock, the heavy knowledge of the tide changing pressing down on your shoulders, making each step half a stumble, half a fall. No time left, not with Hawke leaning against Fenris' shoulders, soot-streaked and exhausted, their hands tangled tightly together as he gently tugs her forward, keeps her going.

You're jealous a little, you think, that you aren't leaning the same way against Isabela, that you can't, either of you, manage to rest, not now, not to run away.

You don’t get to run away together.

There isn't enough _time_ , not for words or kisses or one last chance to be inside her, and isn't that the only thing you can think about now when the world's ending, not the lives behind you or the blood spilled, but the weight of her breasts in your hands and the shape of her scars against your tongue when you kiss her body, the contrast between the cool press of her piercings and the heat of her skin, the way her hips lift with a jerk right before she comes, the only ungraceful, inelegant motion you've ever seen her body make, and it's only sometimes, only when you've startled her, brought her up before she was expecting it, and her nails catch on skin or sheet or pillow and her eyes close and her chin lifts and her breath stutters before she groans your name.

All you can think of is the sound of her laughter when she's half asleep, the curve of her smile when she wakes, her eyes dark and glinting like gold when she blinks.

You always knew she'd leave you, knew she be carried away by the sea, but even so it’s too soon. You aren't ready.

You knew you'd never be ready, but you still weren't prepared for how much it aches, more than the knot between your shoulders from bracing Bianca all day, more than the burn in your eyes that started with that first sharp light lifting from the Chantry and that has only gotten worse, breath by breath and blink by blink, until you're amazed you can still see at all.

Until you wish you couldn't, not when all you can see in Kirkwall is death.

Not when you're going to have to watch them leave.

But Hawke has to be free, and no mages will be free after this, not unless they hide. Hawke and Daisy must go. And Fenris won't leave Hawke, and Rivaini's the only one who stands a chance of getting them on a ship...

Isabela would never abandon her Kitten when she needed her. Nor Hawke, nor Fenris.

You don't think about Anders.

You miss Blondie, and you have to stop yourself from wondering how long he'd been gone before you noticed.

Choir Boy's in Hightown, Red and her Guards in Low, and you know where the Carta keeps its stashes, and which of the Merchants have secure enough townhouses to just be waiting it out, which might be willing to take in some of their displaced neighbors. You know who in town might share their coin, who has men to spare, who has coin they wouldn't spare but would be easy enough to get at, and you can't, you just _can't..._

There's a clatter of boots on wood, piers at last, the Gallows only shadows behind you.

"Here we go," Isabela's voice is rough, and soft, and sad, and a tangle of things you don't know how to name, but it sounds just like you feel, and she glances over at you, the glint in her eyes darker than usual because she knows.

She always knows.

"You have to stay," she whispers.

Daisy's eyes go wide and Hawke's head shakes and Broody's shoulders are too tight, but you spread your hands and pretend you remember how to smile before any of them manage to say a thing. "You have to go."

Her grip is strong as she pulls on your coat, bending down as you reach up and it's the worst kiss of your life because it's the best you could ever imagine and it's good-bye, good-bye with your heart in your throat and all your words gone, gone, nothing to say that means more than her fingers curling against your chest and the press of her mouth and the fleeing soft brush of her breath against your lips as she pulls away, just a little, just enough to whisper again. "But only for a little while."

You don't know if you believe her, but you want to, so you manage to lift your hand to brush her cheek, to look into her eyes and let your smile soften. "I'll be here."


	10. correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [inktober prompt: invitation](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/166910724767)

**isabela**

* * *

It takes longer than you want to get back; too soon you have to go again. Kirkwall's a shit-hole, but it's one that needs supplies, and there aren't a fuck-ton of honest Captains lining up to keep trade going with a shit-hole that's still a _little bit_ on fire. Sometimes.

You're not sure when you turned into someone who couldn't ignore that sort of thing. You're pretty sure it's Hawke's fault, whenever it happened.

You're practically a _merchant_.

You shudder quite dramatically at the word, but you find you don't even really mind, especially not when Varric sees you off, handing you a satchel with a smirk. He refuses to say anything about it, just waggles his eyebrows and fingers and whistles something almost lewd as you walk away.

Inside there's a bottle of liquor, something covered in runes that you can't read, with a coil of gold beads wrapped around the neck. The beads are obviously taken from a _just-in-case_ stash, and the fact that he broke into his for you, despite all the many _just-in-cases_ happening in Kirkwall, is as warming on its own as you expect the booze will be once you break into it and take a swig. 

It's such a perfectly pretty shiny bit of portable gold; the fact that he knows how pretty, that he knows how very much you'd like how they'd feel slipping between your fingers, is enough to make you pause and sigh and smile like an idiot down into the bag. You're very glad you had the sense to open it in private so no one else witnesses the fact that the Queen of the Eastern Seas has gone soft as goose down.

There's also a stack of paper stuffed in the side, and you feel your eyebrows rise as you tug it free, because it's an honest to Andraste bundle of letters tied together _with a ribbon._

A golden ribbon, and your eyes burn at the memory, a toast under a darkening sky, and you let them, just this once, when no one can see. 

You blink, and sniff, just once, _just once,_ deep and hard, and pull out the top letter.

It's dated the day after you left with Hawke, the day after the Gallows fell. It's short, the stroke of the pen uneven, the ink splotchy, the paper worn. You have no idea where he found the supplies while the world was breaking apart. You have no idea how he found the _time,_ while everyone was begging him to put it back together again.

_Be safe, Isabela. Keep them safe. Come back._

Your eyes are burning, and you have to go be Captain, you can't be crying on deck. You tuck them all away again to save for later.

The next one would have been safe to read, you think once later happens and you're a paragraph in. He's complaining about the Merchant's Guild, still determined to hold its meetings, even though their hall doesn't have a roof.

Someone cleaned the table though, so there they all are, gathered around a gigantic shining slab of wood with sunlight getting in their eyes and the whistle of a too-cold wind up from the Harbor sneaking around the corners and everyone arguing and nothing getting done and you're about to roll your eyes and put the damn thing away for later again -- _I'm sorry you have to deal with the idiots, but why must I deal with them too? --_ but then you see your name.

> _I let my mind wander, and I wished you were there, Isabela. And not just because misery loves company, because I never have been miserable with you. But then I thought about the sorts of things that don't make me miserable, how hot your cunt is when I'm inside you, the sound your slick makes when I fill you up and it has nowhere to go but out, dripping down your skin and mine, and_ Maker's Balls, _I was hard and hot and they were all still talking._

You surprise yourself with the noise you make, soft and startled and not just in your head. He'd never... he seldom talked dirty, always more a hint and a wink before he got down to business type. 

Not that you'd minded. He was good at business. 

_Both kinds._

It was a stupid joke, but it was yours, and he rolled his eyes at it every time. And he smiled.

> _I should probably have distracted myself, looked up at the clouds and actually listened to the idiots so I'd have softened up enough to stand whenever they were finally done..._
> 
> _But you'd be the first to tell me never to settle for_ should _, wouldn't you?_
> 
> _So instead I thought about how much fun it would be to shut them up by fucking you, then and there, pushing you back down onto the table, legs spread as you smirked up at me, that glint in your eye as I ripped your clothes out of the way, that sound as I pushed inside you, that look on your face as your eyes half-closed and you moaned._
> 
> _And then, and then my Isabela, I would fuck you. But it's a big table, waxed and shining and wide and long and there'd be nothing for you to hold onto, nothing to brace you on, so if I fucked you hard enough you'd move, skin sliding across the surface, and I'd have to hold you tight, wouldn't I, have to pull you back onto my cock each time, over and over._

He'd never wanted to write any of the erotic hijinks you suggested, stuck to his thrillers and his occasional _fade-to-black_ and now your clit is aching and the thought that you never knew he had it in him is irresistibly, inevitably followed by _Maker I wish I had him in me._

> _Would you like that? Would you like their eyes on you, the sun on your skin, your breasts moving with each thrust, each slide, harder and harder, as deep inside you as I could go?_

You like it now, your thighs pressed together as you lean forward, hold yourself as tight as possible, breathless and hot as you read, as you _imagine,_ how thick he is, how hot, how strong, how far you'd slide, the sound your skin would make as it caught and held and gave against the table each time, just a little catch to change the rhythm, to edge the pleasure of each thrust with discomfort, just enough to make it feel even better.

> _Once I started I couldn't stop thinking about it, about you, and I had to shift enough to get a hand down my pants, had to wrap my fingers hard around the base of my cock to stop myself from going off just from the feel of my trousers gone taut over my hard-on, from the memory of you, from the possibility..._
> 
> _Do you like thinking about it, about me so desperate and hard and wanting you? I couldn't get up when the meeting was over, had to chat mindlessly with a couple of the newest members before everyone finally left, and I pushed down my trousers and rubbed one out right there, right then, coming on the floor beneath the table, whispering your name to myself._

You're rocking back and forth, your tongue flicks out to lick your lips, you can feel your nostrils flare as you read, as you remember every time he's ever fucked you, as you think about every time he could again.

As you think how long it would take to get to the Merchant's Guild from the Docks next time you land.

> _Do you say my name when you touch yourself in your Captain's Cabin? Are you touching yourself right now? Do it for me, Isabela, please. Come for me._

It's too much, it's perfect, it's the last line of the letter and you let it fall to the floor as you rub yourself, pushing roughly up against your own body, pretending it's him, and you come fast, fast and hard, and your whole body jerks and you almost slam your head against the wall and you don't give a fuck if your whole crew heard you yell.

You strip properly, you read it again, let your fingers ghost across your skin as you go, let it build slowly this time, slow and warm, until you're fucking your fingers and you're saying his name, over and over, and the second time you come you almost wail with relief, with longing, and you have to wipe your hands clean to touch the letter afterwards, to fold it up and slip it back into its envelope.

You portion them out carefully, those letters. Read them one at a time, savor them. _They're filthy,_ every single one of them, and every single one of them makes you come, hard, and count the days 'til you can answer the question he always asks.

> _Would you like to?_

_Yes._

He meets you at the Docks when you come in, and he doesn't say a word, just meets your eyes and you don't have to speak, don't even have to nod, and you don't make it all the way to the Merchant's Guild, you barely make it out of the hex before he's got two fingers inside you and you're rubbing his cock through his clothes and he sucks your breast through your tunic, sucks so hard you feel the piercing move, feel the tug through to your cunt, and you're coming apart already, hard and messy against the uneven stone walls of an alley and it's not enough, you still want him, still want more, _will always want him, will always want him to ask, will always want to say yes,_ but the edge is off, just enough, and you stagger back to his rooms at the Hanged Man, hand in hand.

It's three days before you make it to the Merchant's Guild, and the table is even slipperier than either of you expected, your body moves with every shift, every breath, and you make a mess of it, slick and seed and sweat dripping off your bodies, staining the top, and when he thrusts you feel like you're back at sea on a storm, completely at his mercy, back and forth and up and down, and when you come you feel like you're flying.

When you head out again a few weeks later he hands you another packet, and if you didn't know better you'd think he was blushing as your fingertips brush, the paper shifting between your hands.

If you didn't know better, you might think you were too.

When you kiss him good-bye it's soft, and you hear the paper crinkle between your fingers as you walk away, gripping it tight.

You'll only be gone for a little while.


	11. regret

**varric**

* * *

You're not there.

You're not going to be there.

You're used to being a liar, take a certain amount of pride in it, in fact, but this time is not the same as the rest. This one chafes, this one burns, this one is too much.

Your broken promise breaks your heart, though you can't admit that to yourself. Don't dare let doubt or hurt trickle out past your smile, past wide-spread hands and a sarcastic quip or three. If you let yourself feel, you might not be able to hold the mask, something too close to anger will slip and your "escort" will shift from grumpy and suspicious to something even worse.

You've already been threatened and interrogated and kidnapped. Certainly don't want to let the Seeker's focus shift so she thinks to share her sharp knives and loud words with someone else. You have to protect them. Isabela would insist she can take care of herself, but she'd agree with the rest. She'd want you to protect Hawke, Fenris, Merrill... even Aveline, for all Isabela claims not to care about your Lady Shield-Wall.

Thinking their names makes the ache in your heart grow worse, but you can't not, even as you betray them, leave them, pretend they mean nothing to you at all.

None of them need a Seeker nipping at their heels.

Neither did you, but you've been caught. Might as well try and tangle her in her own net, long enough to make sure no one else leaves too many tracks behind them as they scatter out of sight.

Maybe you really couldn't find them if you looked. Maybe it's not a lie.

You almost snort out loud where the Seeker or her people could hear you.

When did you get so bad at lying to yourself?

It even sticks in your craw to badmouth Choir Boy, and that's usually just some good entertainment of an evening. This isn't any of your usual jokes; you can't give him a chance to fight back.

There is no fighting back against the Right Hand of The Divine.

You know this is what you need to do, you know it's the right decision, you know this is your job, the only one you've ever been good at, lying to save your family.

You know they'll never forgive you.

You didn't even have a chance for one last letter, one hint, something to help her figure out the rest. You hope she cares enough to try despite it all, hope she cares enough to --

You know she'll never forgive you.


	12. trudgery

**isabela**

* * *

You'd run out of swear words a half-a-mountain ago, and you're just trudging silently behind the Inquisition agent who thinks _she'd_ recruited _you_ , wondering what you think you're doing so far from the sea. Even when you were grounded in Kirkwall with Hawke, when you came back to Varric, the sea was always _right there,_ salt-sweet and white-tipped, comforting with Her deadly whispers day and night.

White tipped mountains are an entirely different sort of thing; trees whisper in the winds at night, but it isn't the same, not even close, and the stones are stubbornly silent.

You figure that's where the damn dwarves get it, right?

You can't decide if you're going to hug him or hit him.

Probably aren't going to have to resort to stabbing.

Maybe?

He hadn't even left a message behind for _Kitten._

For you, either, nothing beyond an in-progress letter that sounded like all the rest.

Even in your own head you keep shying away from wondering if that's better or worse. Does he trust you to know? To know what? After all this time, does he not trust you at all?

That seems unlikely. He's let you hold Bianca a time or two, which is a Void or two more serious than your wedding vows had been. Not that he deserves even the side-ways comparison to Luis, no matter how annoying it was to come back to Kirkwall to discover he'd let himself be carted off by a fucking _Seeker._

Idiot.

But somehow he's _your_ idiot, so it seems you're the one to go check on him when it becomes obvious no one else has heard from him either.

Except for Hawke. Of course Hawke. Always Hawke. If she wasn't family, if you didn't know how much she hated _always being Hawke_ that'd get annoying. Instead it's just something else to worry about, a very short note that said only: _stay put for once, please._

Varric doesn't say please.

Well, occasionally when he's spread out on a bed or cornered in his favorite chair by the fire and you tease him a bit longer than usual, but that certainly isn't the sort of thing he'd put in a note for Hawke.

If you'd realized there'd be snow involved, you might have just left him to hang.

No you wouldn't.

You would have packed wool socks.

Maybe some chocolate to melt over the campfire at night.

Definitely more rum.

Andraste's Tits, you might let him hang for some more rum.

No you won't. It isn't even close, and that's why you're in the middle of fucking Ferelden in the winter trying to pretend you're more pissed off than worried.

He's never broken his word before; for all most people think him twisty he's always so very careful with what he says, what he lets people think, what he promises. It's been three years since he told you he'd be there in Kirkwall when you came back, and he always is, _always_ , somehow knowing even before you tell him, usually waiting for you at the docks with a shrug and a half-hidden smile. He always had a terrible story or three about what he'd been up to while you were gone, which he doled out in bits and pieces between all the welcome-home fucking.

It’s almost embarrassing how much more you miss the stories than the fucking. It’s damn fine fucking, of course. But that’s not all that difficult to come by, if you’re determined enough. The stories though... his breath against your skin as the firelight fades and you wrap yourselves up in blankets, the rhythm of his words a counter-point to the staccato echoes of your steps as you traipse together through Lowtown, his laugh echoing up to the rafters as you offer each other a toast, ale or rum or wine or some rich black Rivaini coffee brought out on a chilly morning. 

Maker’s breath, you miss his laugh.

He better tell a damn fine tale when you catch up to him, _or else_.

Or else...

Or else you’ll never forgive yourself for not being there for him when it happened, whatever _it_  was.


End file.
